


A Turn in Your Arms

by Canttouchthis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29401800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis
Summary: When time keeps Turning upon itself, Hermione learns that your life can change over the course of a single Ball.A Regency-era story of two people from different worlds who find each other in spite of the odds.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 28
Kudos: 132
Collections: Box of Chocolates





	A Turn in Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Box_of_Chocolates](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Box_of_Chocolates) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Time Travel / Silk Sheets - NSFW/SFW unspecified by artists
> 
> **Thank you** to my wonderful enabler/beta [ThusAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThusAtlas/pseuds/ThusAtlas). This fic would not have come together without you. And a special thanks to [melanoradrood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoradrood/pseuds/melanoradrood) for answering my inane questions on regency era clothing. 
> 
> Last but not least, thank you to LadyScribbles for the incredible art that was truly inspiring. Find the artist on [Instagram](www.facebook.com/ladyscribbles/) and [Tumblr](https://ladykenz347.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter.

_**Turn 1** _

At 7:00 pm precisely, Hermione stood at the threshold of the ballroom, willing herself to step through in spite of her many, and she believed valid, reasons for wanting to remain as far from this place as possible. After all, she didn’t need the acceptance of pure-blood society, particularly not the types of people the Malfoys would invite to their annual St. Valentine's Day Ball.

Yet here she was, wide eyed and shifting in a ball gown, uncomfortably aware of the stiff corset and thick stockings binding her. She’d spent an embarrassing amount of time coiffing her hair, allowing Ginny to coo over her and apply far too much rouge to her cheeks. 

She tried to remember why she had come, but the answer seemed fleetingly distant.

“Hermione,” Harry called from behind her, eyeing her carefully, as though he could read her doubt.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m leaving,” she told him, turning and preparing to escape as quickly as possible.

“Hermione,” he repeated, his tone firm and his arms crossed over his chest. He looked so unlike himself, donning breeches and a black overcoat, rather than his typical Auror attire.

“I don’t belong here,” she told him, her voice betraying her nerves. She was just a Muggleborn after all; Malfoy only invited her because Harry had asked.

“Remember what we talked about? How it’s unfair that so many decisions are made behind closed doors at private Balls?” Harry reminded her, his eyebrows raised.

She huffed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, this is all true. But — Harry, I’ll stand out. I look —”

“You look beautiful,” he told her, his eyes softening. “You’ll dance, you’ll make connections, and hopefully you’ll be able to make the strides you wish.”

He made it sound so easy, so simple — but he was also right. They lived in an unfair world where to be pure-blood was to have influence. While Harry might have been half-blood, his name and rank gave him clout and she was grateful he was so willing to extend his good fortune to her.

“I just wish it wasn’t a Malfoy Ball,” she bemoaned as her eyes fell on the man himself, standing court at the edge of the ballroom, not a hair out of place or wrinkle on his green waistcoat and cream colored breeches. Her nostrils flared in anger at the sight, considering just how easy the man had it, having been born not only to fortune but looks as well.

Harry simply laughed. “He’s really not that terrible.”

“He was awful at Hogwarts!” Hermione reminded him, recalling the times the girls and boys schools would come together; Draco Malfoy would tease her and Harry for the most petulant of reasons, like her intelligence or his glasses.

“Well, yes, he was childish and inane but weren’t we all?” Harry pointed out.

Hermione didn’t appreciate his use of logic when she wanted to be annoyed and petty but accepted his elbow and did her best to keep her chest puffed proudly as they entered the crowded ballroom. She recognized many of her classmates from Hogwarts as well as quite a few members of the Wizengamot, many of whom were eyeing her with barely concealed surprise. 

She kept her chin up as she strode across the ballroom, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “They’re staring at me,” she whispered to Harry out of the corner of her mouth. The room was massive and undeniably magnificent; the ceiling was magically charmed to emulate the sky just at sunset. Tiny wisps of light danced around the room, casting a glow over the many couples on the dance floor. 

She heard the soft chuckle that escaped Harry’s lips and resisted the urge to narrow her eyes. “It’s because you are just _so_ breathtaking,” he said, though she could hear the slightest hint of humor in his tone.

Once more, she wished she were not at this Ball, but only so that she could punch Harry Potter in the shoulder without suffering public humiliation for her troubles. He deposited her with the other so-called ‘ladies’ and gave her a short bow, his eyes shining with amusement.

She had no desire to dilly dally and chat about the order of the day with the likes of Lavender Brown and Pavarti Patil. While they may have once been together at school, their lives had very much diverged. Where Lavender and Parvarti were focused on finding a match, attending Balls and the like, Hermione had sought a career in politics. It didn’t matter to her that she was a _woman_ and a Muggleborn at that; she had a passion for suffrage and improving the policies that governed the Wizarding World.

“Er, Hermione?” Ron Weasley approached her nervously, his hands fumblings at his sides.

“Hello, Ronald,” she said, smiling at her old friend. They had been quite close at one point, but as time wore on, Ron’s interests went down a different path.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, looking at her expectantly.

“Yes?” she answered uncertainly, watching as his face relaxed and his lips turned up into a smile. 

In truth, she didn’t particularly want to dance with Ron Weasley — not that she had anything against the man, but he didn’t hold any particular political sway; rather, he managed a shop with his brother on Diagon Alley that specialized in entertainment. It was an admirable profession of course, but Hermione had not come to the Ball to toil the night away; she had come to make connections with the witches and wizards who currently held influence and power.

“Are you enjoying the Ball?” he asked, pulling her in line with the other dancers as a waltz started. She knew the steps; she had spent an embarrassing amount of time with her mentor Minerva McGonagall practicing the moves so that she would not make a fool of herself. Yet the dance still felt clumsy, and she feared before long that Ronald would step on her feet.

“Yes?” she repeated her early affirmation, not quite sure how to answer such a thing. Afterall, could she admit to not enjoying the Ball? That she found the clothing stifling and the need for decorum inherently inhibiting? 

She caught Harry dancing with Pansy Parkinson, his eyes alight and Hermione softened at the sight of her dear friend having worked up the courage to finally ask the woman he’d been sweet on to dance.

The waltz was awkward and Hermione found Ron’s clammy hand quite uncomfortable against her own. When the dance finally ended, she gave the requisite curtsy and made her way to the other side of the ballroom as quickly as she possibly could without breaking into a run.

Unfortunately, in her haste to leave the dance floor, she ran right into someone. “Excuse me,” she said, steadying herself and brushing her skirts clear.

“Excuse — oh, should’ve known that would be you, Granger,” none other than Draco Malfoy drawled, his signature smirk marking his annoyingly handsome face.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Malfoy?” she asked, trying her best not to huff or betray her annoyance.

“It means, I find you to be clumsy,” he answered with a slight shrug, his eyes teasing.

“Perhaps if you had been paying attention to where you were going —”

“Are you trying to imply that it was _me_ who wasn’t looking where _I_ was walking?” he interrupted, his voice laced with amusement, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

She felt her face grow warm and did everything she could to swallow her anger. This was his Ball after all, it wouldn’t do to have an all out brawl with the host. But something about the way he looked at her, like she was but a small ant that he could crush, irked her.

“Because you’re just so perfect? Tell me, I’ve heard your father has come into a bit of trouble with the Ministry, would you care to talk about that?” she asked facetiously, enjoying the way the blush bloomed from under his collar as his eyes narrowed at her. They may no longer be children but it still gave her a rush of pleasure to rile up Draco Malfoy. 

“You’re one to talk — what are you doing here anyway? Trying to marry up? But — didn’t I see you dancing with Ron Weasley?” he taunted, taking a step towards her.

She scoffed. “Ron Weasley is a good man. How dare you suggest otherwise. And no, I’m not looking to _marry_ , unlike you, I want to make something of my life.” She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to back down.

He towered over her. His features seemed painfully sharp up close, his eyes a frosty grey. She tilted her chin in challenge as she held his gaze, as though whoever blinked or looked away was admitting to defeat.

“Can I offer you two a drink?” a server asked, smiling as he approached, appearing completely oblivious to the scene he’d interrupted. The man’s eyes were a startling shade of blue, and she could have sworn for a moment they twinkled at her and Malfoy.

Hermione took a small step back, shaking herself slightly.

She _wasn’t_ there to fight with Malfoy; she had come to make connections, to find political allies amongst the pure-blood elite.

They each accepted a drink, shifting uncomfortably and sending the other pointed glares, in some strange game wherein neither were willing to be the first one to leave for fear of conceding ground to the other.

Luckily, Malfoy was called away by some socialite or another. He gave her a final parting sneer before spinning on his heel and striding off, leaving her with her gauntlet of ambrosia as she urged herself to calm down and refocus her efforts. 

She wasn’t there to dance with Ron or bicker with Malfoy. She willed herself to stand taller as she made her way over to where the married couples sat off to the side. She repeated in her head the small speech she had prepared of the reasons why women should have seats on the Wizengamot, and of the importance of suffrage and equality.

But no one had the time or desire to speak with an unmarried Muggleborn witch on such matters; the men instead chuckled at her efforts and told their wives how _sweet_ it was to see such vitality in the younger generation. She maintained her composure as best she could, though internally she grew progressively more angry as each old man made a point to remind her of her place.

When a nephew of the former Minister Fudge attempted to stealthily make a grab for her buttocks, she decided to call it a night, making her way for the entrance without even a good-bye to Harry.

She stepped outside of the Manor at 9:00 pm, telling herself she’d call on Harry in the morning.

* * *

_**Turn 2** _

“What?” she murmured. Rather than stepping outside, it was as though the world had shifted and she was once more standing at the threshold of the ballroom. Something seemed off, but she couldn’t quite grasp what, and assumed perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk that ambrosia so quickly.

She turned, shaking her head and preparing once more to leave when she saw Harry standing a few feet away.

She blinked. “Harry? I thought I just saw you inside dancing with Pansy?” She could have sworn she had seen them on their _third_ dance of the evening, something meaningful in these circles if she understood correctly.

He furrowed his brow before breaking into a smile. “Good one, Hermione. I just got here, same as you. Now, let’s go in, yeah?”

She eyed him carefully, as though waiting for him to make some sort of sense when she noticed the grandfather clock against the hallway read _7:00 pm_.

Well, that was frankly impossible.

She pressed her hand against her forehead, not feeling particularly warm, and considered a number of different alternatives: perhaps she had simply day-dreamed her earlier interactions? Although, Harry was dressed identically to how she recalled. Looking into the ballroom, the scene felt unnaturally familiar.

Harry was looking at her strangely. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, we should go in?” She took his proffered elbow and entered, feeling a foreboding sense of deja vu. Everything, from the lilac in Lavender's dress to the lace ribbon in Parvati’s hair was identical to her — memory? Day dream? She couldn’t decide how to describe what had happened.

“Er, Hermione?” Ron asked, yet again. “Would you like to dance?”

She recalled their dance in her daydream, the uncomfortable waltz, and decided this time to decline. “Oh, perhaps later?” she said with an attempt at a smile. She ignored the way his shoulders drooped in disappointment and instead made her way to an empty table. 

Once more, she collided into someone, her face smacking right into the man’s back; this time, however, her distraction was caused by the absurdity of the situation rather than her desire to escape the dance floor. She grabbed at her nose when a familiar scowl turned to face her.

“Granger?” Malfoy scoffed, narrowing his eyes.

She looked at him strangely, noticing the slight ruffle of his hair and the way his eyes shifted from hers and darted around the room. “Excuse me,” she said and made as though to leave when he grabbed her elbow.

Her eyes went wide and she pulled her limb from his grasp. “What?” she seethed.

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be dancing with Weasley?” he managed to say the words in a way that came off as both haughty and offensive. 

She had a snide remark on the tip of her tongue when the gravity of his words hit her. “What do you mean I should be dancing with Weasley?”

He blinked, pushing his fingers through his hair, further disheveling the blonde locks. His gaze landed on a point a few meters to the left of them, where Ron Weasley was sulking with Neville Longbottom. “Just — didn’t you dance with Weasley?” There was no sneer in his tone, rather he sounded confused, his eyes calculating.

She bit the inside of her cheek, watching him carefully and debating whether to say what was on her mind. Afterall, his remark suggested that he had somehow also remembered the gala previously, and recollected a similar series of events as she did. Or it could imply that Malfoy was simply stalking her and noticed Ron ask her to dance. She feared for a moment that perhaps the phenomena was only happening in her own mind, and were she to say something, she would be laughed at — or worse, sent to St. Mungo’s.

But Malfoy’s shiftiness spoke volumes, encouraging her to finally ask, “Did you attempt to leave the Gala and simply — find yourself back here?”

He managed to appear both panicked and relieved as he answered, “Yes, but…” he trailed off, peering at the crowd that surrounded them and beckoned her to accompany him to a small table in the corner, out of earshot.

Hermione’s left eye twitched and her feet remained planted, considering the ramifications of following Draco Malfoy. She wondered if the entire thing was some sort of prank, something to make her as a Muggleborn feel less than. And, while she didn’t necessarily hold plans to marry into high society, it was not thought well for an unmarried woman of any station to spend time with a man unchaperoned. 

Malfoy gave her one of his signature eye rolls before reaching out as though to grab her elbow. “I can walk on my own, thank you very much,” she snapped with her nose held high, moving to accompany him.

“So,” he started once they’d seated, “you recall the Ball twice, yes?”

Hermione released a heavy exhale. Even if it was Malfoy she was sharing some sort of delusion with, at least she wasn’t completely alone. “Yes; I came to the Ball, danced with Ron, fought with you, failed to elicit any support for my initiatives and left. Though the minute I stepped over the threshold, I was turned around and found myself once again preparing to enter.”

Malfoy frowned and nodded. “I turned around at one point to get a drink and suddenly I was back in time two hours.” He hunched over his arms and leaned towards her. It was strange to be in such proximity to the man without the urge to punch him.

“What do you think happened?” she asked, trying to think through the various mechanisms that would cause two people to repeat a couple of hours. “I mean, it can’t be a time turner, right? There are curses that have done things like this but I would assume that everyone here would have been impacted. And of course, there are magical creatures that can cause all sorts of mischief but I can’t think of a practical application for this happening…” she trailed off and lifted her eyes to meet Malfoy’s, which were alight in amusement. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He smirked. “Just, you haven’t changed a bit since Hogwarts, have you? Still so swotty—”

“Do you have a problem with that?” she asked, clasping her hands together as she leaned forward; that conciliatory feeling between them long gone as the urge to cause him bodily harm returned.

He raised his eyebrows in a way that was both aggravatingly handsome and incredibly patronising. “No problem, Granger,” he replied gruffly, sitting back slightly in his chair. She felt some of the tension ease and the gravity of their current situation once more returned to the forefront of her mind.

“So? What do you think?” she asked. “I find this whole thing quite disconcerting.” She assumed, by how his shirt sat askew and the way he needlessly fidgeted, that he was similarly discombobulated.

“Well, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t a time turner, since I cannot think of how a time turner would have caused the two of us to repeat time unaware. And as you mentioned, a curse is unlikely to be targeted, though without further information I can’t know for sure,” he answered, his fingers tapping the table.

Her eyes wandered to where Harry danced with Pansy, his eyes alight once more, though this time she frowned, thrown by the familiarity of the pair. She was beginning to consider next steps when a rather stout man, some Undersecretary or another, interrupted.

“Mr. Malfoy?” The Undersecretary of something mundane said, making a point to look down on her. “You said you would dance with my daughter,” he finished, continuing to eye Hermione with disdain.

“I think we’re done here, aren’t we, Granger?” Malfoy said, attempting to pat down his hair. His frown had hardened once more as his face closed off. It was strange, Hermione hadn’t quite appreciated his countenance shift until it switched back.

As much as she wanted to roll her eyes and insist that they were in fact far from done and their conversation was not over, she recognized that a single man and woman sitting alone in a quiet corner was quite unheard of in pure-blood society. So she did her best to smile as he stood. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he left with the man.

* * *

_**Turn 3** _

“Not again,” Hermione moaned, finding herself once more at that familiar threshold to the Ball. She heard Harry behind her but ignored him, pressing forward and meeting Malfoy, as if by design, in the middle of the dance floor.

“It happened again,” he said in a huff.

“I know,” she agreed, “I tried to leave early, hoping maybe it was simply a matter of what time I departed, but at 9:00 pm precisely I was back here, at this infernal Ball.”

He frowned and scrunched his face. “This is a _delightful_ Ball, Granger. I’ll have you know my mother spent hours—”

“Really, Malfoy, are we going to stand here and argue over how utterly delightful this Ball is? Or perhaps we can discuss the situation at hand, since the fact we have lived through this — Ball — three times, suggests to me we may be stuck,” she managed to get out in a single breath.

His lip quirked in amusement and she found herself smiling, in spite of herself. The cacophony of the Ball caught up to her as the couples surrounding them on the dance floor whipped by. She was preparing to turn, or suggest that they regroup elsewhere, when she caught sight of Ron Weasley heading straight for her.

“Dance with me, please?” she pleaded, her eyes darting between Ron, who was still headed her way, and Malfoy’s now incredulous expression. “We need to talk more anyways — and this is a Ball, afterall.” 

He smirked slightly and for a moment, she thought he’d refuse, but instead he gently took hold of her waist and hand, guiding her into the familiar waltz. She watched in her periphery as Ron's shoulders did their familiar slump and she exhaled in relief, shutting her eyes momentarily.

Malfoy’s quiet chuckle brought her to the present. “So that’s why you wanted to dance? To avoid Weasley?” he suggested, and she did her best to ignore how close they were or how seamlessly they stepped around the dancefloor, so unlike her dance with Ron two Turns ago.

“That’s besides the point,” she explained as they separated and walked hand in hand along with the rest of the couples on the floor. She swallowed, her eyes held steady on his. “The _point_ , Malfoy, is that we’ve now lived through this Ball three times. There’s every reason to believe we will keep repeating the same couple of hours.”

He pulled her back to him and their cheeks were barely an inch apart, his hand grazing her hip as his eyes continued to bore into hers. They didn’t hold the contempt she usually associated with him, rather they were a surprisingly soft grey that seemed fitting with his light steps and soft touch. They took a step away from each other, continuing the dance in near perfect synchrony.

“Do you have any new theories? After our conversation —” he furrowed his brows “ — during the last Turn as you called it. I can’t help but feel your third idea had merit.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise as they swayed left and right. “That it was a magical creature of sorts?” His hand shifted on her back and she felt an involuntary shiver run up her spine as they once more were pushed together, their noses only inches apart.

“Yes,” his voice came as a whisper against her and she nearly gasped at the feel of his breath against her neck. They separated and she had to close her eyes momentarily to level herself. He continued, “There are a number of magical creatures known for causing mischief—”

“But why?” she asked. He spun her slowly before pulling her to him. They were so close; she could feel the rapid beat of his heart and smell the whiskey and tobacco on his breath. 

“For all sorts of reasons, I suppose,” he muttered, his voice somewhat shaky, and she considered momentarily that perhaps Draco Malfoy, scion of the House of Malfoy and pure-blood extraordinaire, was affected by her.

But then, she had to admit, as they continued to sway across the dancefloor, she herself was not immune. 

He continued, “Sometimes, magical creatures simply seek to amuse themselves, or perhaps they are trying to get something from us.” 

They separated completely and she took two steps back, standing in line with the rest of the ladies on the dancefloor. She did her best to smile at her fellow dancers, but her gaze kept shifting to Malfoy, watching as he pressed his forearm up to Cho Chang while Hermione did the same with Cedric Diggory. She had the strangest pull in her gut as they finally reconnected and once more moved back and forth with the orchestra.

“So, you think creatures did this to us,” she spoke softly. She wanted to just sway there, focus on the feel of her hand in his, the way his eyes seemed to melt into hers, but that nagging voice in the back of her head pushed her on. “Is there a way to find out who or what?”

He blinked before shaking his head. “Not that I’m aware of, just — these kinds of things will keep going until the creature is satisfied.”

“So,” she said as the music began to dim and they stopped, still connected. “We’re powerless?”

“I —” 

“Mr. Malfoy.” Wizengamot member Greengrass strode towards them, a pretty brunette in tow. “I was hoping you might dance with my youngest daughter, Astoria. Beautiful, is she not?”

Draco turned to face Hermione, his hand still pressed against her waist, but she took a step back, shaking herself from the moment. He seemed to do the same, turning to the man and giving him a tight smile. “Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

Hermione gave the shortest curtsy she was able and walked off the dance floor as quickly as possible.

She stood against the far wall, gently fanning herself, and watched Draco Malfoy from the corner of her eye. 

She felt something impossible; a soft flutter in her stomach and a quickening of her pulse. All for _him_ , Draco Malfoy. But that wasn’t right — he was a cruel man who had once been an incompetent childhood bully. Her few engagements with him typically resulted in his insulting her for some perceived slight.

Though, that wasn’t quite fair. She’d rarely engaged him as an adult, and she most certainly gave as good as she got. 

She tried to refocus, after all, they were stuck in an untenable situation which deserved her full and undivided attention.

But try as she might, her gaze would flit back, and when she caught his in return, she couldn’t ignore the flip of her stomach. 

Something impossible was happening indeed.

* * *

_**Turn 4** _

She was prepared for it this time, expecting it. She smiled at Harry and took his elbow, letting him lead her into the ballroom. She heard Harry’s familiar words of reassurance, saw the same couples on the dance floor, and felt a strange numbness overcome her.

She wondered how many times they could Turn before she lost her mind; how many times she could see the same thing before she stopped believing it was real. 

She spotted Malfoy immediately, sitting in the far corner, his eyes locked on her. And she felt relief, because he was the one thing that was different each time.

“I can take it from here, Harry,” she told her friend. Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. She tried to ignore the looks headed her way, after all, they were there each time, a reminder that she was a Muggleborn at a pure-blood society event.

“Hi,” she said to Malfoy as she reached the table. He made to stand and pull our her chair but she beat him to it, taking a seat and letting the rest of the Ball drift away.

“Hi,” he responded. He parted his lips as if to speak but nothing came out.

Hermione once more wondered if it was she who so affected him. And she noticed that the very thought sent an incomparable feeling of warmth through her.

She swallowed and gathered her wits. “I was asking — before — if you thought we were powerless to do anything about this—”

“Right,” he nodded and cleared his throat, “I’m not sure. We have children’s tales of creatures and folklore but otherwise they’re notoriously elusive. But typically there _is_ a purpose to their antics.”

“It’s—” she struggled momentarily to find her words, “ — quite disorienting. The more we turn. I feel as though…” she trailed off, shaking her hands slightly in exasperation.

He huffed and shut his eyes for a moment. “I understand how you feel; seeing the same people do the same things...it’s enough to make me fear for my sanity,” he admitted. 

She felt eyes on them and worried once more that they’d be interrupted by some politician or father anxious for Malfoy’s attention. “I wish we weren’t stuck here. It seems so —”

“Suffocating?” he suggested, raising his eyebrows.

She nodded. “Yes, but I tried leaving before and I was just brought back.”

He furrowed his brows before a mischievous smile formed on his face. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “We can’t do that! This is _your_ Ball! And what would people say?”

“Granger,” he drawled, “does it really matter?” His eyes were alight in amusement.

She narrowed hers in response. “Of course it matter—”

“We keep turning, Granger,” he pointed out. “Technically, it seems that nothing we do will matter until this Turn business is dealt with.” He sat back, holding his gaze on hers.

Her lips curled at his words; she had only been seeing the Turns as a curse — a burden. “I never considered it in that way. But you’re right — we can do anything and it will be like it never happened.” She pressed her finger to her lips, suddenly considering all the options. “Where would we go?” she whispered conspiratorially.

He laughed lightly, the sound so different from the cruel laughter she’d previously associated with the man. She had never imagined anything about Draco Malfoy could be soft, or that the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes could cause a lump to form in the pit of her stomach.

He looked towards the servants entrance. “How about the kitchens?” he suggested.

She narrowed her eyes. “Wouldn’t we be in the way?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh Granger, where’s your sense of adventure?” He stood up and offered her his hand. She shook her head but smiled, accepting it, ignoring the whispers and eyes that followed them from the room.

They pushed through the servants’ entrance, racing through the hallway and into the loud and busy kitchen. Hermione was breathless, grinning ear to ear, her cheeks pink as she considered she had just left a crowded _Ball_ with _Draco Malfoy_.

He pulled her to an oak table, summoning a bottle of firewhiskey, a cheeseboard and a baguette. She swallowed, her breathing still labored from the exertion, watching as he filled two tumblers with the amber substance.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass to her.

“Cheers,” she replied, taking a small sip.

The kitchen was a stark contrast to the ballroom. The servants and house-elves worked noisily, the clacking of dishes and aroma of their cooking surrounding them. She was much more at ease and relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt since she first entered the Ball four Turns ago. 

“They don’t seem bothered by your presence,” Hermione said, noticing the way the staff had barely blinked when they burst through.

Malfoy shrugged, taking a long sip before responding, “I come here quite a bit — whenever I simply need to get away. So they’re used to me.”

She had never thought of Malfoy as having a life he’d need to get away from, rather assuming that because he was a man, and a pure-blood at that, he had everything handed to him on a silver platter. 

“What’s it like?” she asked. “Being Draco Malfoy — the most eligible bachelor in Wizarding London?” She smirked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want to know?” She nodded and he continued, “It’s utterly exhausting. The pressure to find the perfect wife, all of the politicians who want a piece of me... Sometimes I wish I could just get away from it all.”

She wanted to be angry. Here he was, with the influence and status to affect real change in this world, yet he didn’t seem to care. But she realized, as she watched the way his shoulders finally unwound and how he grabbed at his shirt beneath his waistcoat, that what she saw as a gift may actually be a burden for him.

“It’s funny,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek as she held his gaze. “I was always envious of you—”

“What?” he interrupted.

She gave him a glare but continued, “Do you know what it’s like — to be a Muggleborn witch? Absolutely no one cares for a word I have to say. All they want is for me to marry or become a governess, something ‘suitable to my station’. But I can’t even stand to think of such a thing…” she trailed off, feeling her pulse quicken and eyes go wide at her own admission.

He didn’t laugh at her as she feared he would, like all of those men had during the first turn. Rather, he looked sympathetic, slightly quiriking his lip. “I guess I always assumed, since you were a Muggleborn, that you were free to do as you wished. Though, it doesn’t seem to matter who you are, does it? At the end of the day, this world will tell us what it wants us to be, regardless of what we want?”

She was speechless, amazed that somehow, in spite of the chasm that divided them, they were the same. She nodded and took a generous sip of whiskey, feeling the heat flow through her and settle in her chest.

“Come on,” he said, abruptly standing up and once more offering her his hand.

She blinked. “What now?” she asked.

“I have an idea. Let’s decide, for the remainder of this Turn, we’re not Draco Malfoy, pure-blood and Hermione Granger, Muggleborn. Let’s just be us,” he said playfully. She felt as though she was seeing him for the first time — this man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, who just wanted to be free. And the idea was just so remarkable, to not be defined by her blood type and gender for a time. She pressed her hand into his and followed him to a small courtyard, adorned with fairy lights and exposed to the night sky. Silk sheets hung from the surrounding veranda, elegantly draped over the scant tables scattered throughout. Between the magic and majesty of the space, she felt momentarily as though she were in a scene from a fairy tale.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, stepping away from him and gazing at the stars above. A warming charm kept the brisk February air at bay.

“Hmm,” he responded and she turned, realising he wasn’t watching the night sky but looking at her.

“What?” she asked, feeling the heat return to her cheeks.

“It’s — seeing the way you look at this place, it reminds me of how magical the manor is. I’m so used to it — I guess I sometimes take it for granted,” he told her with a slight smile.

Her eyes went wide. “You know, for a moment I forgot you actually lived here. That must have been remarkable, growing up in a place like this…” she trailed off, trying to imagine it. “Why’d you want to come out here?”

His eyes shifted to his feet before returning to hers. “I wanted to ask you to dance.”

She narrowed her gaze. “But we already danced,” she pointed out.

He shook his head. “We _waltzed_. And besides, that was Hermione Granger, Muggleborn and Draco Malfoy, pure-blood. I’d like to dance with just Hermione if that’s alright,” he said with a half-smile, somehow simultaneously cocky and vulnerable.

“But there’s no music,” she pointed out with a slight smirk.

“We’re magical, Hermione,” he said as he wordlessly spelled a melody to surround them. She shivered at her given name on his lips, the sound so different from the drawl of ‘Granger’. He raised a single eyebrow and she nodded in acceptance, chuckling softly.

She held her breath as he glided up to her, placing his hands on her in a way that somehow now felt familiar. She swallowed, keeping her gaze locked with his, and followed his lead as he moved them around the courtyard, as the lights continued to sparkle all around them.

He spun her into him, pulling her back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her. “Where did you learn to dance?” he asked, his lips a hair’s breadths from her ear. She leant her head against him and felt his nose graze her hair. She shut her eyes, momentarily imagining the feel of his lips against her neck.

He spun her around and their eyes met once more. 

“Headmistress McGonagall taught me — I didn’t want to appear foolish,” she answered, though she struggled to get the words out smoothly against her labored breaths.

They stepped back and forward, inches apart, their movements in perfect harmony beneath the moon and stars. “She taught you well,” Draco said, his words clipped.

“What about you?” she asked, for fear of letting her mind continue to wander. He dipped her gently, his hand firmly against her back and she watched him against the backdrop of the night sky. He was beautiful in a way she’d never considered.

He pulled her back up, squeezing her hand before continuing their promenade around the courtyard. “I’ve been taking dancing lessons since I was a child,” he explained.

“Do you enjoy it?” she asked, their steps becoming more languid.

He wet his lips, shifting his gaze for a moment before responding, “I didn’t, until I danced with you.”

She blinked and made a concerted effort to keep from gaping.

“Hermione,” he murmured, their dance had somehow stilled, their feet no longer moving. But he continued to hold her, making no effort to separate. 

“Draco,” she uttered his name aloud. His eyes widened and he swallowed. They stood, barely inches apart and she wondered how it was that before all of these Turns she saw him as so far away, imagining a world lay between them.

His gaze fell to her lips and he leaned forward, his lips lightly pressing against her own. 

It was chaste, as if he was giving her the opportunity to back away, to run and change her mind. But she didn’t want that. The kiss felt like fire, as though somehow in these turns, the impossible thing that built between them had become tangible.

She wrapped her arms around him, and pushed herself closer, letting their lips move together. He was warm; from his fingertips pushing at the top of her skirts to his breath, as he gently prodded his tongue against her lips. She had always assumed he’d be cold for some reason, then again, there was a lot about Draco Malfoy she realized now she never knew.

That warmth spread to the bottom of her stomach, and she pressed her hips towards him, bemoaning the layers of skirts that lay between them. His fingers grazed her sides over her gown, teasing her gently, as his lips lay kisses against her neck. 

Her breaths grew short and she pushed her fingers into his hair—

* * *

_**Turn 5** _

She wanted to scream. 

“Hermione?” Harry called from behind her.

She could still feel the echo of Draco’s lips against her neck, an imprint of his hands pressed into her hips. It was agony, the fire within her, unable to be dulled by the Turn itself.

“Hermione.” Draco’s voice pulled her from her reverie and she practically jumped at the sight of him, his gaze stuck on her, his eyes alight. Judging by the shortness of his breath and the way his hair was strewn across his face, he had run, perhaps as anxious to unite as she.

Harry was saying something, but everything other than Draco was muddled, as though the rest of the world had somehow faded away.

“Can we have another Turn?” she asked. They had agreed to be Hermione and Draco for just the one, and while a part of her sought to find the answer to their predicament, she didn’t think she’d be able to think or breathe until they’d finished what they started.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Harry interjected, his brows furrowed in concern.

“We’ll tell you after the Ball,” Draco told him, grabbing Hermione’s hand and pulling her down a previously hidden hallway, the pair giggling along the way.

The Ball faded into the distance, the lingering calls from Harry disappearing as the hallway entrance magically vanished. Draco stopped abruptly and turned them, trapping Hermione against the wall. Her breath hitched as his hands interlocked with hers, pressing them over her head, his gaze dancing from her lips back to her eyes.

“I missed you,” he whispered, pressing light kisses against her neck. It was irrational; they had only been away from each other for a few minutes, but the abruptness of the Turn had left her feeling chilled.

“I know,” she told him, her words breathy and she pushed her hips against him. She wanted to touch him, to press her fingertips into his hair, brush them along his sides, but his hands held her firm. “What’s happening to us?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, pressing his lips to hers so hard she gasped and her eyes fluttered shut. Without breaking the kiss, he shifted, straddling her legs with his own. The feel of his want between her thighs sent a wave of warmth through her whole being.

“Whatever it is,” he continued, his soft words vibrating through her, “I think I’m okay with it.” 

Warmth flooded her cheeks at his admission and she nodded her own agreement, her breaths heavy and her entire being trembling. “Can we — can we go somewhere?” She looked up at him and caught the way his eyes widened and lips curled into a knowing smile. He slowly released her, leaving her feeling unfathomably empty, as though something had occurred in the last Turn to irrevocably connect them.

Draco pulled her through narrow hallways lined with portraits, that whispered to one another as they passed. All thoughts of the Ball and their predicament sat in the far recesses of Hermione’s mind, and all she could think of was the feel of Draco’s muscles beneath his tunic and the way his lips brushed against her own.

“I’d take you to my rooms,” he told her, leading her through the threshold and into the twinkling courtyard where they danced in the last Turn. “But I don’t think I could make it,” he whispered. He transfigured a table into a bed, covering it in silk sheets. He looked at her, apprehension clear in his gaze as his chest heaved. She couldn’t take it anymore; somehow in the course of one evening, replayed over and over, the longing had compounded, building until the tension was palpable.

She urged him onto the makeshift bed, pushing her lips against his smirk and clawing her fingers through his hair. She tugged at his waistcoat, pulling at the outerwear until it fell into a heap. They sat together atop the silk sheets, lips locked and hands grasping desperately, the turns lending a sense of urgency to their explorations. His tongue lightly drew along her bottom lip, while his hands continued to explore her every curve over the layers of chiffon that divided them.

She broke off the kiss, breathless and flushed, their faces inches apart. She carefully removed his suspenders, sliding them off of his shoulders and brushing her nails alongside his upper back. She pressed her fingers across the buckle of his tunic, feeling the rough beat of his chest beneath as she unclipped it, letting his shirt fall loose. 

He grabbed her wrist, his thumb gently caressing circles against the skin, before moving his fingers to the laces at her breast, deftly loosening the strings. He pushed her gown off, grazing her arms softly as the white fabric fell atop the bed. He continued to press his fingertips to her skin, as though mesmerized, before gently placing a trail of kisses from her bare shoulder to her neck. 

His lips returned to hers, hard, and she gasped at the sudden urgency, as though he had only then remembered their predicament, that their time was limited. He tugged at the laces of her petticoat and the cotton slipped off of her, leaving her in only her burgundy corset, stockings and garter. He froze, his fingers tracing the tops of her breasts, his eyes wide and pupils shot. 

Hermione pushed herself up to her knees, straddling Draco, cradling his neck, her forehead pressed to his and her breaths heavy. They were still, his hands gripping her waist, and a slight smile playing on his lips. She felt his desire pressed against her own and she shivered, her breaths quickening.

Her hands fell to his waist, gently pulling at his shirt, easing it over his head. She grazed her fingertips against the pale skin, tracing the lines of muscle, while his fingers pressed into her lower back, attempting to pull her closer. Each touch was like fire, and even without her dress, there was still too much between them.

She sat straighter, her gaze locked on Draco’s as her fingers moved to the lace on her corset. As she began to loosen the laces at the top, his hand once more returned to her wrist.

She frowned slightly. “What?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He swallowed, his eyes drifting from her eyes to her exposed cleavage. “Are you sure?” he asked. “We don’t have to do this.”

Her lips curled into a smile. She leant forward, kissing his neck softly, whispering, “Yes. I want this with you, Draco.”

His breath hitched; he released her wrist, roughly tearing at the corset, all sense of caution evaporated. She laughed lightly and exhaled in relief once the laces were unwound. He threw the corset to the side and placed kisses along her chest, his hands running along her sides. Her fingers once more laced through his hair; she trembled as his tongue darted towards her breast and his fingers moved to her waist. 

He gripped her, gently laying her back on the silk sheets. He lay to her side, his eyes dancing over her, his desire palpable. She felt beautiful in a way she had never imagined; wanted in a way she never considered. His fingers lightly traced up the inside of her leg, slowing as he neared her sex. He dawdled, continuing to explore her upper thighs, taunting. She placed her hand on his, swallowing as she urged him to touch her. 

His fingers stroked along her slit, gently rubbing against her nub, his ministrations languid as his gaze shifted up to hers. She burned under the weight of his grey eyes, the feel of his thumb pushing against her clit. He leant forward, hovering over her, his lips lightly grazing her own, placing the tip of his finger within her.

She tilted her head up, grabbing his head and kissing him roughly. She sighed into his mouth, the press of his fingers sending vibrations to the tip of her toes, as though each nerve ending were alight. Her teeth scraped his lower lip as her hands drifted down his back to his waist, brushing against his breeches. As he slowly placed a second finger within her, she lowered her hand to brush over his hardened length, atop his breeches.

She felt her legs tremble, a warmth building within her, as his pace quickened, his fingers and thumb working in tandem. “Draco,” she breathed, pressing her fingers against the buttons of his breeches. “I’d like all of you this Turn,” she told him, releasing his cock.

He nodded, drawing out his fingers and placing his forearms to the side of her head. Their noses touched and she kept her gaze on his as she stroked his length. His eyelids fluttered shut, his puffs of breath — a whiff of the same whiskey and tobacco as before — brushed against her.

He kissed her roughly, his moans catching in her throat, his tongue snaking against hers. She continued to caress him, relishing the feel of him against her palm and the way he seemed so utterly affected.

“Hermione,” he moaned, his hand reaching towards hers, aligning his arousal against her entrance. His eyes glazed over her, memorizing her, the greys alight in a way she was not yet familiar. His blonde locks spilled to the side, the smallest beads of sweat coming off of them. She had never wanted anything more in her life than she wanted him in that moment.

She nodded once more, assuring him of her want, brushing a hand across his cheek as she captured this memory within a Turn that would likely only live on for them. He pushed softly against her entrance, his eyes shutting as he buried himself fully within her.

She remained still at first, her breaths light as he gently eased in and out, pressing kisses against her neck. But as his movements continued, his thighs shaking from the exertion, she shifted her hips, pressing as he pushed, squeezing as he pulled. It wasn’t long before she felt a tingle spread from her core, a warmth that caught in her throat. 

Draco’s breaths grew further labored, his face buried within her neck. She clutched him tight, squeezing her knees against his hips. “Draco,” she whimpered, his given name so easily spilling from her lips. He mumbled incoherently, his movements erratic, continuing to pulse within her.

She leant her head back, letting her gaze shift from his to the clear sky, the thousands of stars and the fairy lights that surrounded them. She gripped his shoulders, her thighs growing tight, her entire body vibrating. He kissed her as they came apart, her own moans of pleasure echoing in the back of his throat. He kept his lips pressed to hers, the kiss languid, their bodies still interlocked. She felt something she struggled to comprehend, beyond the pleasure itself, an undeniable connection.

She was warm, boneless beneath him, fully enraptured by the kiss. She imagined for a moment, the feeling of falling asleep in Draco’s arms; of waking up tangled in his limbs. She had always been so focused on her career — prideful of her independence. But as they lay atop one another, their lips continuing to explore, she no longer thought the world so simple.

She saw in her mind a life where she could lay with Draco Malfoy, yet still achieve what she always desired. Where perhaps being a Muggleborn witch would stop being such a burden. She clutched him closer, wanting to remain connected.

But then she froze, terrified by the sudden fear of a Turn.

“Draco,” she started, her eyes wide, her breaths short.

He gently rolled to the side, turning her so they faced one another, clasping her hands in his. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to leave here — the next Turn —” Her breath caught. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his soft gaze locked on hers.

“Let’s not think about that then,” he suggested, pulling her closer. 

She let herself be coaxed, curling into him. “What do you suppose then we should discuss?”

“Hmmm,” he mumbled into her hair. She felt a pull on her lip, the worry of the turn beginning to fade from her mind. “Tell me about your political notions. It’s why you’re here, is it not?”

She tilted her head up, eyeing him with surprise. “Yes. But I wouldn’t imagine you would care to talk of such things.”

He squeezed her gently and she was overcome with the feeling of being warm, _safe_ even. She explained, “I wish to see a world where people like me, women and those of less than pure bloodlines, are given the same liberties and rights as others.”

“And you came here to try and convince tired old pure-blood men of the righteousness of your cause?” he asked. His tone contained no vitriol, none of the sneer she had previously expected of him. 

“When you say it like that, the idea does sound quite silly. I guess I was hopeful, that were I simply in the same room, I would have the opportunity to enact the change I seek,” she explained. “There’s no logical reason for the division; in fact, there’s evidence to suggest the introduction of new blood into an existing system actually makes it all the stronger.” It was the short speech she had sought to give at the Ball, and here she was finally giving it, to one of the most influential pure-bloods of them all.

“You truly care about this,” he said, his tone surprised. He feathered his fingers up and down her arm. “You know, I have a fair bit of influence.”

“So I’ve heard,” she quipped, a soft smile on her lips.

“Indeed. And I have no desire to use it. What if we could help each other? You could speak on my behalf, and I would be free from the political nonsense,” he suggested, brushing his thumb against her cheek, his gaze landing on hers. 

There was no amusement in his eyes. “You’re serious?” she asked.

“Just think about it.” He kissed her forehead, and they fell into silence, clutching one another.

As Hermione felt her eyes grow heavy, she prayed she’d wake up in his arms, that she’d —

* * *

_**Turn 6** _

She gasped; she felt empty, cold, in spite of the bulky dress and pressing corset.

She didn’t understand why this kept happening but, what for a moment felt like a gift, now felt utterly cruel. She dreamt of falling asleep, waking up to his smile, rather than _here_ , yet again.

“Hermione?” Harry called out as he always did, but she ignored him, her mind whirring.

“I can’t —” she muttered, shaking her head. 

“Remember what we talked about?” Harry said, misunderstanding her utterance.

She just wanted more than these two hours. Somehow, in the space of an evening, repeated endlessly, she had found something she had never known possible. But the cruelty was that they were trapped within this time, unable to move forward. 

Draco was rushing towards her, his hair a mess, his shirt ruffled, and as the tears began to stream down her cheeks, she felt the slight pull of a smile. Like a rainbow after a storm.

“Hermione.” Draco exhaled, pulling her to him, pressing kisses into her hair.

She shut her eyes, relaxing into him momentarily, placing her ear against his chest and focusing on the steady rhythm of his heart beats. “I don’t want to Turn again, Draco,” she admitted.

She heard some mumbling between Draco and Harry but couldn’t bring herself to care. She heard footsteps quieting in the distance and looked up, catching Draco’s gaze. Harry was gone; they stood alone within the drawing room.

“I don’t want to Turn either,” he agreed, a faint smile juxtaposing the sadness in his eyes.

“I feel as though this night has somehow been both a blessing and a curse. But to keep on turning; to not be able to explore what we—” she smacked her lips shut, terrified by what she was about to admit.

Draco loosened his grip on her, holding onto her forearms. “What is it, Hermione?”

“It’s — terrifying. In a matter of Turns, the way I feel for you,” she told him. “I —” she shook her head, unable to finish.

He seemed to be watching her so carefully, his gaze flitting across her face. He said, “I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t know how I never saw you until tonight but — I can’t imagine not seeing you; not holding you…” he trailed off.

“I just want to wake up in your arms,” she waxed. “I want to know when I fall asleep beside you that you will be there. I want to wield the Malfoy name and for you to have the freedom you so deserve. I want it all Draco. I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoed. They were both frozen from the admission, clutching one another’s forearms. They leaned towards one another — 

“Well done,” a voice called out from their left, accompanied by soft clapping.

Draco and Hermione jumped, frowning at the sight of one of the servants.

“Excuse me?” Hermione asked, trying to understand the rather odd utterance.

“You have managed to find one another — in only 6 Turns of the night! Quite remarkable…” he trailed off, chuckling to himself.

Hermione noticed the startling blue of his irises and her eyes went wide. “I recognize you! You gave us the ambrosia on our first Turn — did you do this to us?” Her fingers went to the hidden pocket in her gown where she kept her wand.

He nodded, placing his hands up. “I did. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Trevor, your resident Cupid.”

Hermione turned to Draco, seeing a look of recognition cross his features. “Really? A Cupid?” Draco asked, his tone intrigued rather than angry.

The strange Cupid gave a short bow. “I saw you two had the potential for a great love. You just needed some help,” he explained.

“So, the ambrosia — somehow caused us to Turn in time? Until we declared our love for one another?” Hermione asked.

Trevor confirmed, “It did.”

“And what if we had never made such declarations?” she clarified.

The Cupid chuckled. “This is what I do for a living. I know love when I see it.”

“So it’s over?” Draco asked, still clutching Hermione’s hand, as though afraid she would suddenly disappear.

“It is indeed,” the Cupid assured them. “I’d best be on my way. But I’ll be expecting an invitation to the wedding.” He snapped his fingers and vanished, leaving Hermione and Draco standing, their mouths agape.

“It’s over then?” Hermione whispered, suddenly afraid of the world outside of the Ball. They had agreed to be Draco and Hermione for those two Turns, but what did that mean for everything else? What if he suddenly recalled his station, how precisely below him she was?

“It’s far from over,” he said quietly. “Would you dance with me?” His eyes twinkled and he squeezed her hand.

“I’d love nothing more,” she told him, smiling as they walked hand in hand into the crowded Ball for the last time.


End file.
